


College

by holtzbabe



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-08-23 10:19:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16617098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holtzbabe/pseuds/holtzbabe
Summary: When Erin pictured going off to college and having a roommate, this isn’t exactly the scenario she imagined.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Prompt: and they were roommates (in college, randomly placed with each other) oh my god they were roommates"

Erin unlocks the door to the room that will be her home for the next eight months, takes a deep breath, and pushes it open.

She immediately falters when she sees the sight within.

Not to be deterred, she steps inside with her suitcase, lets the door close behind her, and clears her throat. “Um, hi? Are you Jillian?”

The blonde girl who’s currently perched on the (very narrow) windowsill on the far side of the room turns her head, resembling an owl in more ways than one. Yellow goggles magnify her eyes to twice their size.

“It’s Holtzmann,” the girl corrects. She does not move from the windowsill.

Erin tilts her head. “Okay? Um. I’m Erin? Your…roommate?”

The girl—Holtzmann—looks her up and down and runs her tongue along her teeth. “Oh. Right. Well, I’m super gay.”

Erin leans closer, sure she misheard. “Excuse me?”

Holtzmann thumps her chest, now looking more primate than bird. “Me. Gay.”

“Okay? Uh…good for you?”

Holtzmann shrugs one shoulder. “Thought I should give you the heads up early in case it’s going to be a problem for you.”

“It’s not.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Gay?”

“Oh. No, I’m not gay.”

It’s the truth. Erin isn’t gay—she’s bisexual. And she’s not quite as willing as Holtzmann seems to be to give that information up to a stranger within minutes of meeting her.

“That’s cool.” Holtzmann turns back to look out the window. “You have a nickname?”

Erin squints at the unexpected question. “No?”

“Well, that’s no good. We’ll find you one. Don’t you worry.”

“Okay?” Erin pauses. “So. Um. Why are you sitting in the window?”

Holtzmann grunts but doesn’t actually answer.

“Cool, cool,” Erin mutters under her breath.

When she pictured going off to college and having a roommate, this isn’t exactly the scenario she imagined.

“ _HEY, ASSWIPE,”_ Holtzmann shouts out the window.

Erin leaps out of her skin, clutching her chest. “What the hell?”

Holtzmann doesn’t turn. “My best friend,” she offers, as if that’s any explanation.

“My condolences to them,” Erin mumbles.

She takes a moment to finally glance around the small room. There’s not much in it aside from a couple of desks, two dressers, and a bunk bed. There are a few scattered boxes of Holtzmann’s belongings. One of them is labeled,somewhat concerningly, _THINGS?_

There’s a thud as Holtzmann jumps suddenly off the ledge. Erin gets her first real look at her as she straightens up. She’s wearing a navy-blue crop top covered in tiny stars and faded yellow overalls, a small pastel button pinned to them that says _F &%@ Celery_. She’s so covered in paint splatters that Erin immediately guesses that she’s an art student. There’s something written on the inside of her arm in thick black letters. Erin can’t quite make out what it says at the current angle.

“I’m a top,” Holtzmann says.

Erin blinks. “Sorry?”

Holtzmann jabs her thumb at the bunk bed. “Hope that’s okay with you.”

Erin’s eyes travel up to the top bunk, where there’s already a pillow and bedding resting.

“Fine by me,” Erin says.

Holtzmann points at Erin’s suitcase. “Is that all your shit?”

Erin looks down at it. “Yes. Why?”

Holtzmann makes a face. “A minimalist, huh?”

“Sure,” Erin says. That’s one explanation.

She cranes her neck to read the writing on her roommate’s arm now that it’s more visible. _DON’T FORGET._

“Don’t forget what?” she jokes.

“I can’t remember,” Holtzmann deadpans.

Erin laughs awkwardly.

There’s a beat.

“Well, on that note, I actually have somewhere I gotta be right now,” Holtzmann says. She kisses the tips of her fingers and touches them to Erin’s forehead as she steps around her. “Catch ya later, Not-Gay-Erin.”

Erin turns after her, forehead creasing where Holtzmann touched it. “Is that my new nickname?”

“Only until I have time to come up with something better,” Holtzmann says cheerfully, and then she slips from the room before Erin can say another word.

All Erin can do is blink and look around the room with stupor.

What the _hell_ is she in for this year?

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been two weeks, and Erin is pretty sure that Holtzmann hasn’t gone to class once. She never seems to leave the room during the day, just sits up on her bed doing god knows what. She does leave frequently in the middle of the night for hours at a time, waking Erin up every single time she leaps from the top bunk to the floor, forgoing the ladder. Erin has no idea where she disappears to or what she’s doing, and she doesn’t ask.

“What are you majoring in?” Holtzmann asks abruptly one day, pulling apart and pushing together a slinky between her hands like she’s playing an accordion.

Erin looks up from her laptop at her desk. “English,” she says stiffly.

“What are you going to do with an English degree?” Holtzmann asks, blunt as ever.

Erin huffs, already unimpressed by how many times she’s been asked that exact question. “What are you going to do with an _art_ degree?”

“I’m not majoring in art,” Holtzmann says, one eyebrow raised with amusement.

“But…but you look so…”

“Gay?”

“Art-student-y.”

“Same thing.”

“What _are_ you majoring in, then?”

“Engineering,” Holtzmann says cheerfully.

“Seriously? Now I’m _really_ concerned about the fact that you never seem to go to class. Don’t you need to spend time in labs, or something?”

“Of course. And I do.”

“ _When?”_

Holtzmann raises her other eyebrow, like she’s waiting for Erin to put two-and-two together.

“You’re telling me that the lab is open at 3:00am,” Erin says dryly.

“Well, after I pick the lock it is,” Holtzmann says.

Erin honestly can’t tell whether or not she’s joking.

“You really should go to class,” she mutters.

 

Erin is ten minutes into her Victorian poetry lecture when someone sits down beside her.

She’s ready to be angry, wondering what kind of person chooses the seat right next to her when the rest of the row is empty, then does a double take when she sees who it is.

“What’d I miss?” Holtzmann asks.

“What are you doing here?” Erin hisses under her breath.

“Learning,” Holtzmann says. “Can I borrow a pen?”

“Did you transfer into this class?”

“Nope,” Holtzmann says, popping the P. “Pen?”

Erin huffs and digs around in her bag until she produces one. She hands it to her. “Paper too?”

“Nah,” Holtzmann says.

“Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of us?” the prof at the front of the room asks, arms folded across her chest. “Your thoughts on Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s ‘Sonnet 14,’ perhaps?”

Holtzmann doesn’t miss a beat. “Sure. Let’s take a look at the first quatrain. The speaker’s tentativeness remains even as she contemplates the joy of a romantic relationship. Her feeling of procrastination is all she has to shield her heart should things go wrong later. She signals a possibility of acceptance by saying ‘If thou must love me.’ The word ‘must’ here indicates that there’s a change on the horizon. She realizes the true nature of the person’s love, even though she can’t bring herself to have complete faith that something in her nature might not spoil it.”

There’s a pause.

“Very good,” the professor says. “What’s your name?”

“Lorelai O’Ryan,” Holtzmann says.

“I don’t think your name is on my class list,” the professor says.

“Nah, it wouldn’t be on there yet; I only transfered in this morning.” Holtzmann sneaks a wink at Erin.

“I shall keep an eye out for it, then,” the prof says. She clears her throat. “So, as Lorelai eloquently put it, ‘Sonnet 14’ is about the speaker contemplating her suitor’s affections. Now, let’s take a closer look at the first line…”

“Nice analysis, Lorelai,” Erin says under her breath as the lecture continues. “You memorized it straight from the internet.”

“Why is it so hard to believe that I have intelligent thoughts about a poem?”

“Because I read the same website in preparation for class,” Erin says dryly. “In fact, I think I left it open on my laptop.”

“Did you really? What a spectacular coincidence!”

Erin just flat-out ignores her, unwilling to let Holtzmann’s antics get in the way of her education. Let her try to mess with her as much as she wants.

Or so she wants to think, until Holtzmann’s fingers are warm on her arm and there’s a pressure indenting her skin. Her eyes fly to the spot, tracking the pen as it swoops and scratches, then she looks up with a glare. Holtzmann’s tongue is poking out from between her teeth in concentration. 

Erin could yank her arm away, but she fears that it will just end up hurting her if she does, so she sighs loud enough for Holtzmann to hear and very pointedly turns her attention back to the lecture.

Several minutes pass before the scratching stops and Holtzmann releases her arm. Erin looks back down, twisting her arm so she can read the writing.

_But love me for love’s sake, that evermore / Thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity_

The last two lines of ‘Sonnet 14.’

And a crude drawing, because why wouldn’t there be?

“Thanks,” Erin huffs.

 

She’s sitting alone in the meal hall eating dinner when Holtzmann appears out of nowhere and grabs the chair across from her, spinning it around backwards before straddling it and setting her tray down.

Erin eyes her plate. “Is that all you’re eating?”

“This is a balanced meal,” Holtzmann says, jabbing her fork into the mountain of mashed potatoes taking up the entire plate.

“Where are the vegetables?”

Holtzmann plucks a single pea out from the other side of the mountain where Erin couldn’t see it and holds it up proudly.

“The protein?” Erin asks dryly.

Holtzmann shakes her carton of chocolate milk. “Also dairy.”

“Grains?”

Holtzmann produces a single slice of bread out of seemingly nowhere and waves it like a flag.

Erin just sighs and goes back to her own meal. She’s not even sure where Holtzmann found mashed potatoes. It’s taco night.

“Do you have friends?” Holtzmann asks, shoveling a mound of potatoes onto her fork.

Erin looks up. Holtzmann has the slice of bread balanced on her head like a hat. She blows on her potatoes like they need to cool down. In Erin’s experience, nothing from the caf is served hot enough that it needs to be cooled down.

“That’s kind of a rude question,” Erin says.

“Only if you don’t have any,” Holtzmann says.

Erin glares pointedly.

“No need to give me the stink eye,” Holtzmann says, face serious despite the slice of bread on her head. “ _I’m_ trying to be your friend.”

“We don’t need to be friends,” Erin says, trying to ignore the bread. “We just have to live together.”

“You can just say you don’t wanna be my friend, Squiggles,” Holtzmann says.

Squiggles. It’s the nickname she chose when she was standing over Erin’s shoulder one day and saw her handwriting, which she thinks is illegible (it’s not, especially compared to Holtzmann’s).

Erin hates it.

“You don’t want to be my friend,” she says, voice hard.

“Sure I do.”

“No.” Erin shakes her head. “Just stop.”

“You’re trying to convince me that you’re not a very nice person.” Holtz smears mashed potatoes across her upper lip like a mustache. “I don’t believe it.”

“That’s nice. Stop playing with your food.”

“Life is too short not to play with your food,” Holtzmann says. She presses the single pea into the potato mustache, right where her philtrum is. Just as it starts to slip, she darts her tongue out and catches it.

“That’s disgusting,” Erin says.

“Just tryin’ to make you laugh,” Holtzmann says. “You’re too serious, Erin.”

“Thanks.”

“That actually wasn’t supposed to be a compliment, but if that’s what you’re striving for, then you’re welcome.”

Erin tidies up her tray, decidedly not hungry anymore.

“Leaving already?” Holtzmann asks.

“I have to study,” Erin says, standing up from her chair and grabbing her tray. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”

“Stop flirting with me and I will.”

Erin pauses. “I’m not flirting with you.”

Holtzmann clicks her tongue. “Sure.”

“You’d know if I was,” Erin says confidently, then turns and walks away from the table, _just_ catching the gleeful expression on Holtzmann’s face before she does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won NaNoWriMo at 3:15am last night and this fic is what got me to 50,000, so yay! I'm not stopping here and shooting for 70,000 now, so I'll keep working on this one until I'm done with it and write some more prompts too


	3. Chapter 3

Holtzmann’s face swings down from the top bunk, hanging upside down like a bat, scaring Erin half to death.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m bored,” Holtzmann says, still hanging there. “Wanna make out?”

“ _No.”_

“Alternate proposal: do you wanna recreate the Spiderman kiss?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay. I’ll just hang out for a bit.”

“Please stop that.”

Holtz swings from side to side. “Why?”

“You’re gonna fall.”

“Am not. I have the core strength of a person with very good core strength.”

“That was a horrible metaphor.”

“Suppose it is. The blood’s all rushing to my head and I’m a little light-headed.”

“Shocking.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You don’t like me.”

“You irritate me. Constantly. On purpose.”

“It’s fun getting under your skin. You’re too uptight. If you let go a little and didn’t care so much, then you’d stop reacting like you do and it wouldn’t be fun anymore and I’d stop.”

“That’s unfair,” Erin says stiffly. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know you plenty,” Holtzmann says. “I know you enough. You’re a good egg, Erin. You just gotta crack that shell a little.”

Then there’s a loud, painful crash as Holtzmann falls to the floor.

Erin is up and out of her bed in seconds, crouching beside her, heart racing. “Holtzmann?! Are you okay?”

“Whoops,” Holtzmann says. “Core strength not as good as I thought.”

“You could’ve broken your neck!” Erin nearly shouts. “Do you have a concussion?”

“How would I know?”

“Does anything hurt? Don’t sit up. Stay still.” Erin’s hand rests lightly on Holtzmann’s chest, holding her down, not trusting that she won’t disobey her orders.

“Nothing hurts. I didn’t hit my head. My ass hurts.”

“So that’s not nothing, then.”

“Well, nothing _serious_ hurts.” Holtzmann grins. “Look at you caring about me.”

“I’m a human being, Holtzmann,” Erin says, clipped. “I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I don’t have feelings.”

“Never said you didn’t. Just meant, you know, nice to get a break from you hating me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“You keep saying that.”

Erin licks her lips. “If you’re sure you didn’t hit your head, try sitting up. _Slowly,_ though.”

She helps Holtzmann carefully sit upright. She rubs her elbow, then inspects it, rolling her sleeve up past it to reveal an already-purpling bruise.

“Gonna have a lot of those,” she says. “I bruise easily.”

Erin shakes her head. “That’s what you get for being a jackass.”

Holtzmann smiles. “Do you forgive me?”

Erin appraises her. “Fine.”

“Progress.”

 

From that night on, they’re kind of friends.

Holtzmann’s teasing doesn’t stop, per se, but it becomes more bearable. More friendly.

She doesn’t think Holtzmann is ever going to stop actively trying to mess with her, but she was right—the less Erin lets herself be affected by it, the less it bothers her and the less Holtzmann does it.

She starts to get used to the weirdness, too. She comes to the realization that a lot of it _isn’t_ Holtzmann trying to screw with her—a lot of it is _just_ how weird she is. She’s proud of it, too. She’s proud of it in a way that suggests a lot of people have tried to squash it out of her.

That makes Erin feel a little guilty for the way she’s been treating her. The rude thoughts she’s been having about her behind her back.

She’s really no better than the kids who have made fun of her over the years.

She stops, after that. Stops wondering why Holtzmann is the way that she is. Stops wishing she weren’t. Stops resisting Holtzmann’s friendship.

 

Erin is studying one night when Holtzmann starts putting on her jacket.

“Where are you off to?” she asks without looking up from her work.

“Movie,” Holtzmann says.

Erin pauses. “Date?”

Holtzmann hums.

Erin chews her lip. “Have fun.”

She makes the most of having the room to herself for the evening, using the peace and quiet to get some work done. When she finishes up for the evening, she gathers up her towels and shower caddy and goes to shower before bed.

After she’s done, she walks back to their room from the bathroom, her shower flip-flops flapping down the hallway. She’s wearing her bathrobe and has a towel wrapped around her wet hair.

When she reaches their door, she immediately freezes.

There’s a sock on the doorknob.

“ _Holtzmann,”_ Erin hisses under her breath.

Her roommate must have returned from the movie while she was in the shower—and didn’t come back alone.

There’s nothing Erin can do. She’s not about to barge in there and be scarred for life.

So she sits down in the hallway outside their door, back against the wall, and prays that Holtzmann has a…disappointingly quick encounter.

Ten minutes passes. Twenty. Thirty. Erin stops counting the seconds.

Other students walk past and give her knowing, sympathetic looks. Some of them laugh. She flips them off.

She’s a good roommate, alright? Even if Holtzmann is a terrible one.

She occupies herself playing absentmindedly with her shower caddy on the floor in front of her, rearranging the bottles over and over again. She unwraps the towel on her head and shakes out her hair, then wraps it again. And again. Eventually her hair is dry and she lets the damp towel rest on her lap.

Holtz knows that she has to let Erin in sometime, right? Even if the mystery girl is staying the night?

She leans her head back against the wall and closes her eyes, letting out a long sigh.

“Well, that’s something you don’t see every day.”

Erin’s eyes fly open. Down at the other end of the hallway, Holtzmann is walking towards her with a smirk.

Erin does a double take, then looks up at the door behind her. “What the—”

“Whatcha doin’ there, roomie?”

“Waiting for you? To open the door?”

“Didya lose your key?”

“No I didn’t _lose my key._ Are you for real? Where the hell did you come from?”

“The movie theatre,” Holtzmann says with an amused smile.

“You mean to tell me I sat out here in my bathrobe for—what time is it?”

“10:05.”

“For _two hours_ because I thought you were in there getting laid and I’m _a good roommate?”_

“Why’d you think that?”

Erin jabs her finger up at the sock on the doorknob.

“You didn’t notice it when you went to go shower? That’s been there since I left,” Holtzmann says.

“ _Why?”_

“For science,” Holtzmann says with a straight face.

“Was the experiment to see how much you can piss me off in a single evening?”

Holtzmann grins and holds out a hand. “Come on, let’s get you inside and out of those wet clothes.”

Erin glares at her as she grabs Holtzmann’s hand and lets her heave her upright. Erin’s legs, asleep from sitting on them for hours, immediately give out and Holtzmann catches her before she falls.

“Whoopsey-daisy,” Holtzmann says. “Oh, your robe slipped a little bit. Hey there, friend-o.”

Erin’s face heats up and she lets go of Holtzmann to quickly tug her robe closed over her chest. “Don’t talk to my boobs.”

“Just the one. Frederick.”

“Don’t _name_ my boobs.”

Holtz unlocks the door, pulling the sock off as she does so, and steps aside to let Erin go in first.

“Sorry, Freddie,” Holtzmann says sadly. “Master’s rules.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

“You wanna come hang out in the common room?”

Erin looks up from typing out an essay to see Holtzmann standing in the open doorway. “Can’t.”

“Come onnnn, it’s Friday. Me and my friends are hanging out in there. No crazy party or anything. Just a couple gals watching some movies. You should join us.”

Erin has to admit, it sounds enticing. “I really should study.”

“Pleeeeaaase?”

Erin doesn’t need to be asked again. She can’t resist the puppy dog eyes. Or the chance to meet Holtzmann’s friends. She saves her document and closes her laptop, then stands. “Okay, let’s go.”

Holtzmann lights up. “ _Yesssss.”_

“Are you drunk?”

“I’ve had _one_ drink,” Holtzmann says, holding up a finger.

“Lightweight, huh?” It’s not surprising. Holtzmann is tiny.

“Yet to be determined,” Holtzmann says, then hiccups. She holds out her hand. “C’mon.”

Erin takes it, letting Holtzmann lead her from the room and down the hall towards the common room. She’s only been inside a handful of times, usually to use the microwave. She doesn’t make a habit of hanging out in there.

When they get inside, there are a few people lounging on the couches, a movie playing on the TV mounted in the top corner of the room.

“Guys, this is my roommate, Erin,” Holtzmann says. “Erin, this is Patty Tolan.”

One of the girls lifts her hand in a wave. “Hey! Nice to finally meet you!”

“And that’s Kevin Beckman.”

“You said ‘a couple gals watching movies,’” Erin says, low enough that only Holtzmann will be able to hear her.

“Oh, Kevin doesn’t count,” Holtzmann says at full volume. “He’s gay.”

“Isn’t that a reductive and offensive stereotype?” Erin asks. “The whole ‘gay men are basically women?’ thing?”

Holtzmann covers Erin’s mouth with her hand. “Shh, shh, I love you and your feminism, but we’re all good. Kevin is a self-proclaimed One of the Girls.”

Kevin lifts his hand as well. “Hello.”

“Australian,” Erin says. “International student?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” the third and final person in the room says, a girl with brown hair and glasses who looks familiar, like maybe Erin has a class with her.

“Annddd, my best friend, Abby Yates,” Holtzmann says.

Erin squints. “Abby Yates?” she repeats, her heart starting to beat fast as she realizes exactly how she knows her.

Abby turns to look over the back of the couch, then cocks her head when she sees Erin. “Erin Gilbert, right? Ghost Girl?”

“You do remember me,” Erin murmurs. Was she that inconsequential in Abby’s life that she barely seems to remember her?

Holtzmann looks back and forth between them with delight. “You know each other?”

“We were friends back in elementary school,” Erin says. “But then…”

“I moved away,” Abby says.

“You left, yeah,” Erin says, voice filled with hurt.

Her one friend—possibly the only real friend she’s ever had in her life—walking away before she could blink. The only person who dared talk to her, the only person she connected with, the only person that saved her from the hell she was facing. Gone.

“Yeah, well, we were kids,” Abby says flippantly. “Was a long time ago. Holtzmann said her roommate’s name was Erin Gilbert, but I wasn’t sure if it was the same one. Nice to see you again.” She turns back to the TV.

Erin takes a step backwards, insides burning.

“I should go,” she says. “Thanks for the invite, but I…shouldn’t be here.”

Holtzmann frowns. “What? No, don’t go. Stay.”

“Thank you,” Erin says, taking another step backwards, “but I really…really should go.”

Holtzmann reaches out a hand as if to stop her, but it falls into the air between them. “Alright,” she says, voice uneasy.

“Thanks,” Erin says again, and then she leaves the common room, walking as quickly as she can down the hallway, unable to get away fast enough.

It’s only when she’s safely inside their room that her eyes well up.

Abby Yates. She thought she’d never see her again. She didn’t _want_ to ever see her again, not when she left her in her most desperate time of need.

She knows it wasn’t Abby’s fault. People move. It was her parents’ decision, not hers.

But Erin can’t help but blame her for it all the same. Abby could’ve kept in touch. Could’ve called, emailed, found her on Facebook.

She never did.

That’s the reason why Erin Gilbert doesn’t have friends.

They all walk out of her life sooner or later.

 

Holtzmann doesn’t return to their room until late. Erin lies very still in her bed, the lights off, and pretends to be asleep.

She feels her bed indent as Holtzmann sits down on the edge of it anyway.

“You’re upset,” she says softly. “Sorry if I did something wrong. I don’t know what I could’ve done, but I’m still sorry.”

Erin doesn’t answer, just continues to breathe evenly.

“That’s all,” Holtzmann says. She gets up, the weight shifting on the bed again. She pulls herself up to the top bunk without bothering to get changed. The frame creaks as she shifts around, getting under the covers.

Erin is used to the sounds, now.

Holtzmann is asleep and snoring within minutes, but Erin doesn’t fall asleep for a very long time.

 

They don’t talk about that night again. If Holtzmann ever figures out that it was Abby that upset Erin, she doesn’t give any indication. She doesn’t bring her up again, or her other friends, so Erin thinks that maybe she does know.

Either way, they don’t talk about it. They get on with their lives. They study. Erin studies. Holtz continues to disappear in the middle of the night. Maybe she’s with Abby. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe Erin was kidding herself if she thought Holtzmann actually wanted to be her friend.

Erin Gilbert is nobody’s friend.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last line is what got me to exactly 50,000 words last night! It was very monumental. 
> 
> Anyway, apparently I can't keep from injecting angst into these things but wanted to shake up this AU and not have it be quite as predictable as usual. Thus the new(ish) Abby/Erin dynamic!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoa look at me finally updating this! i've actually been sitting on this part for ages and another part that's 96% written but i had it in my head that i had to finish the other part and post them together but i definitely don't so here we are! 
> 
> also, i gotta slap a domestic violence trigger warning (not graphic or explicitly shown, but serious) on this chapter because apparently i just can't stop giving erin traumatic backstories. sorry

“Are you going home for the break?” Holtzmann asks at the beginning of November.

Erin has been working on an essay for four hours straight, and when she looks away from her laptop screen, she has to blink moisture back into her eyes to be able to focus on her roommate.

Holtzmann is sitting at her own desk, chair facing Erin, staring at her intently with a notebook and pen in her hand.

“Uhhhhh…no,” Erin says, distracted by the intense focus in her eyes.

Holtzmann writes something in her notebook without breaking eye contact. “Why?”

Erin’s eyes dart to the notebook. “Too much schoolwork,” she murmurs.

She writes something again.

Erin sits up straighter. “What are you doing?”

Holtzmann writes. “Writing a book.”

“About what?”

“A strung-out English student who hates her roommate.”

Erin huffs. “I’m not strung-out.”

Holtzmann quirks an eyebrow with a half-smile. “I never said I was writing about you, but that’s interesting that your mind made the comparison.”

“Shut up,” Erin grumbles, turning back to her screen and rubbing her eyes.

“You should take a break.”

“I’m good.”

“You know they don’t hand out diplomas to ghosts, right?”

Erin stiffens in her chair. Her head snaps over to glare icily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you won’t graduate if you work yourself to death?” Holtzmann cocks her head. “I thought that was pretty clear.”

Erin bites down on her lip hard enough to draw blood and returns to writing her essay without responding.

All she can hear is the scratching of Holtzmann’s pen, and it’s getting under her skin. She reaches for her headphones.

“I’ll stick around,” Holtzmann says just as Erin is about to put her headphones on.

Erin pauses and glances at her.

“For the break,” Holtzmann adds with a crooked smile.

“Do whatever you want,” Erin says after a hefty pause, and then puts her headphones on.

 

The dorm clears out over the break, and it’s like a dream. The cafeteria isn’t crowded; there’s no wait for the showers; there’s not a party keeping her awake every other night…

Except true to her word, Holtzmann doesn’t go home for the break, so Erin doesn’t _really_ get any peace.

On Tuesday afternoon, Erin decides to make the most of the empty building and do some laundry without having to compete for the machines. As she packs up her hamper and detergent, Holtzmann pops her head over the edge of her bed.

“You doing laundry?”

Erin slides her shoes on. “Yep.”

“Wait—” Holtzmann clambers down the ladder of the bunk bed. “Can I join you?”

Erin stares at her. “I don’t own the laundry room.”

“Sweet,” Holtzmann says, either ignoring or missing the sarcasm. “Laundry is better with friends.”

“I always considered it a solitary pursuit,” Erin says, inching towards the door.

Holtzmann gathers armfuls of dirty clothes from her half of the room. “Nuh uh. I promise: it’s better with a friend. Most things are. Grocery shopping…cooking…sex…”

Erin chokes.

“So I’ve heard, anyway,” Holtzmann says, eyes twinkling. “That last one’s only a hypothesis.” She winks.

Erin turns to hide her red face, unlocking and opening the door and grabbing her hamper.

“Hold the door,” Holtzmann says.

Erin holds it open with her hip while Holtzmann ducks past her, arms cradling a massive pile of clothes. Erin tsks as she follows her into the hallway and locks the door again.

They make their way down to the basement. Erin has to pick up more than one dropped sock as she trails behind Holtzmann, and even a pair of underwear that she scoops up with her foot and flicks to the top of the pile. Her face stays red.

In the laundry room, Holtzmann shoves her entire load into one machine, making Erin shudder as she methodically sorts her clothes and starts three separate loads for lights, darks, and delicates. By the time she finishes, Holtzmann has been leaning against one of the washers and watching her for several minutes.

“Are you a _come-back-in-an-hour_ or a _sit-here-obsessively-making-sure-nobody-steals-your-clothes_ type of girl?” The corner of Holtzmann’s mouth ticks up. “I have a feeling I can guess the answer.”

“I usually bring a book or schoolwork,” Erin grumbles, “but you distracted me.”

Holtzmann hums contemplatively and peels herself off the washing machine, tapping her chin. She holds a finger up triumphantly. “I’ll be right back.”

Erin falters. “What? Where are you going?”

“I have to get something,” Holtzmann says.

“No you don’t,” Erin says. “You’re going to leave me here to watch your laundry for you.”

“Blatantly untrue. Don’t you trust me?”

Erin’s chest aches suddenly. “I…”

Holtzmann’s face is earnest. “I promise. I’ll be right back.”

She reaches out and takes Erin’s hand, placing it on her chest.

Erin frowns. “Uh…why am I touching your boob?”

“Well, besides the obvious—” Holtzmann winks again— “here’s a little-known fact about me: when I lie, my heart races super fast. How’s it feel now?”

Erin feels. She swallows. “It’s…a little fast.”

Holtzmann breaks into a lopsided grin and looks down at Erin’s hand. “Well shit, that’s not from lying.”

Erin clears her throat and abruptly pulls her hand back. “I believe you,” she says, trying to keep indifference in her voice. “If you’re not back in five minutes, you’ll lose my trust entirely.”

Holtzmann’s face turns solemn. “In that case, I better run.”

She does. She sprints from the room before Erin can say anything else.

She checks the remaining time on her laundry, then sighs and hops up onto the table at the back of the room where several lost and forgotten socks are strewn.

She times it on her watch. Holtzmann jogs back through the laundry room door after two minutes have elapsed. She’s bright red and panting.

“Did you run the whole way?” Erin asks.

“Had your trust to earn,” Holtzmann gasps out. She brandishes the objects in her hand.

Erin raises her eyebrows. “Nutella?”

“Traditional laundry snack.” Holtzmann joins Erin on the table, still breathing heavily. She hands Erin the tub and one of the plastic spoons she brought.

Erin unscrews the lid and sets it beside her, then peels back the sealed gold foil. “Did you just buy this?”

“No, I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

Erin pauses with her spoon halfway in the tub. “Is this a special occasion?”

Holtzmann is returning to her typical complexion, breathing evening out. “Every occasion can be a special occasion if you decide it is.”

Works for Erin. She scoops out some Nutella but doesn’t eat it, passing the tub to Holtzmann first.

Her roommate digs her own spoon into the container, then lifts it to clink against Erin’s.

“Cheers, my dear,” Holtzmann says.

They pop their spoons in their mouths at the same time.

“I haven’t had Nutella in forever,” Erin says once her spoon is clean. “And never straight out of the jar.”

“What kind of college student are you?” Holtzmann complains, already going for seconds.

If it were anyone else, she wouldn’t want to double dip and get all the germs, but it’s Holtzmann, and Erin finds herself not caring. She takes another scoop and swings her legs.

“So, I don’t know much about you,” Holtzmann says after several minutes of silent eating. “Tell me things.”

“Like what?”

“What was your life like before college?”

Erin pauses. “Not very interesting,” she mumbles.

“I don’t believe that,” Holtzmann says. “Everybody’s interesting. Do you have any friends back home?”

“Why are you so interested in my social life?” Erin jabs her spoon into the jar a little too forcefully.

“Dunno. You just seem sad. I thought maybe you left your heart behind at home.”

Erin appraises her for a moment. “No,” she says finally.

“No boyfriend or anything?” Holtzmann asks casually.

Erin snorts. “No. No boyfriend.” She glances at Holtzmann a little bashfully. “No girlfriend, either,” she tacks on, deciding it’s finally time to break the news.

A pause, and Holtzmann lights up with glee. “I _knew it_ ,” she shouts. “You said you weren’t gay but I _knew_ you couldn’t possibly be straight. _Yes_. Oh my god, this is the best day ever.”

Erin laughs. “Wow. You _knew_ , or you _hoped?_ ”

An impossibly-wide grin splits Holtzmann’s face. “You’re alright, Sudsy, you know that?”

“Is that my new nickname?”

“I think so.”

Erin shrugs one shoulder. “Better than Squiggles, I guess.”

Holtzmann’s grin widens even further. “Still not perfect, but we’ll get there.” She takes the jar from Erin and dips her spoon in. “What was with the nickname that Abby called you?”

Erin freezes. Her heart pounds. “It’s nothing.”

“It sounds like there’s a story there,” Holtzmann teases. “Come on, give it to me. Why were you Ghost Girl? Did ya see a ghost?”

Erin swallows and stares at her swinging feet.

_Don’t you trust me?_

Erin licks her lips, pulse continuing to race, words pouring out of her mouth before she can stop them. “I, um…I don’t know if you know this already—maybe Abby told you, I don’t know—but…my father’s in prison.” She says this last part very quietly.

If Holtzmann is confused by this segue, she doesn’t show it. “For what?” She sticks her heaping spoon back in her mouth.

“Murdering my mother,” Erin gets out.

Now Holtzmann freezes. Her spoon hangs out of her mouth, eyes wide.

She recovers after a moment or two, pulling the spoon from her mouth and lowering it. “ _What?_ ”

Erin nods, staring at her feet again. “It really messed me up. I went a little crazy after that. Nobody could come near me. I was paranoid, pretty much in a constant state of panic. Too scared to sleep. I started seeing stuff that wasn’t really there—I kept seeing her everywhere. She haunted me.”

She hangs her head. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” she says dully. “I was never trying to pretend that she was really there. I knew I was crazy. But the kids at school found out, started making fun of me, and that’s where the nickname came from.” She laughs coldly. “Now you know.”

“Erin…I’m so sorry,” Holtzmann says genuinely, one hand resting lightly on Erin’s shoulder blade. “I know that’s not enough, but I don’t know what else to say. That’s so horrible. All of it. You shouldn’t have had to go through that. Nobody should. The fact that those kids turned your mother’s death into something to make fun of you for…that’s awful. I’ve been made fun of for a lot of shit in my life, but I can’t even begin to imagine that.”

Erin chews on her lip. “Abby saved me. She talked to me when nobody else would. She didn’t make me feel like a freak like everybody else did. She cared. But then she left and I was alone again.”

Holtzmann swears quietly.

Erin lifts her head and puts on her brave face. “It’s fine. It’s ancient history.”

“Couldn’t have been that long ago,” Holtzmann says in a small voice.

“Ten years,” Erin says with a nonchalant shrug, but her insides burn.

Holtzmann’s arm slips all the way around her shoulders and she gives her a side hug, just a little squeeze. Erin leans into it, mildly embarrassed by the warmth that floods through her. She doesn’t get a lot of human touch in her life.

Holtzmann might notice, because she leaves her arm, only letting it slide down so it’s around Erin’s waist instead of her shoulders. She sets the Nutella jar down on the table beside her and leans her head against Erin.

Erin exhales, feeling strangely at peace for having just opened up about the most traumatic event in her life for the first time in a decade.

“Thanks for trusting me,” Holtzmann murmurs.

“We’re friends,” Erin says quietly, done fighting it. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“What, trusting me, or being my friend?”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

In her peripherals, Erin can see Holtzmann smile.

“You know, you can call me Holtz.”

“Holtz,” Erin repeats with a small smile of her own. “Is it just me, or do you become more normal the more someone gets to know you?”

Holtz lifts her head from Erin’s shoulder. “Do I, or have you just gotten desensitized?” She taps her temple.

Erin turns to take in her appearance for the first time all day.

She’s wearing a graphic tee, a navy blue vest buttoned over it, a pair of polka-dot suspenders connecting to her high-waisted red pants, an unbuttoned mustard and forest green flannel over the vest, with a fluffy teal bathrobe and cowboy boots completing the look.

Erin cranes to see what’s embroidered on the back of the bathrobe: _Armadillo Protection Society_

“I guess it _is_ laundry day,” Erin says.

Holtz chuckles.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *doesn't update for like six months*  
> *updates twice in one day*
> 
> i told you that i was basically done this other part lol

Immediately after the break, Erin comes down with the flu.

It hits her as suddenly and severely as a train, and she’s completely knocked out.

“I have to go to class,” she mumbles deliriously.

Holtz firmly pushes her back into bed. “Nah dude, you’re not going anywhere except the bathroom. Even that might be a stretch. I’ll get you a bedpan.”

Erin groans. “I can’t miss class this close to exams. I’ll miss too much.”

As she says it, a wave of nausea overcomes her.

Holtz calmly holds a bucket underneath her head just in time. “I’ll go for you.”

Erin finishes vomiting and takes the offered Kleenex. “What?”

“I’ll be your surrogate,” Holtz says cheerfully. “I’ll go to class for you and take notes.”

Erin squints. “You have your own classes.”

Holtz rolls her eyes. “Where’s your stuff for class?”

Erin points. “Blue for Intro to Women’s Writing, black for Victorian Poetry.”

“…Do you mean the notebooks, or the pen colour?”

“Yes,” Erin says sleepily, eyelids heavy.

“Go to sleep,” Holtz says. “I got this.”

The last thing she sees before she closes her eyes is Holtz slinging Erin’s backpack over her shoulder.

 

When Erin wakes up, Holtz is sitting at her desk—Erin’s desk, not Holtz’s desk—with her head bent.

Erin tries to sit up. Holtz hears the movement and looks over, then quickly leaps up from the chair.

“Nuh uh, back down you go.”

“How was class?” Erin mumbles.

“Enlightening,” Holtz says. “Your Victorian Poetry prof remembered Lorelai from the beginning of the semester, but I talked my way out of it and she let me stay when I explained the situation. She said as long as I don’t do any of your assignments for you, it’s fine. Your Intro to Women’s Writing prof was chill. Total dyke, by the way.”

“I know,” Erin says.

“Course you do.” Holtz grabs the notebooks and Erin’s poetry anthology and climbs into Erin’s bed.

“What—what are you doing?”

“We had an in-class reading and discussion,” Holtz says. “I’m going to pass along my knowledge.”

“Get out of my bed,” Erin protests. “You’re going to get sick.”

Holtz scoffs. “ _Please_. I have the immune system of a fighter jet. _And_ I got my flu shot this year. I ain’t afraid of no flu.”

She adjusts so she’s sitting about halfway down the bed with her back to the wall and her legs extended over Erin’s.

“So,” she says. “Christina Rossetti. She was pretty cool.” She finds the page in the anthology, and begins reading before Erin can say anything. “ _When I am dead, my dearest / Sing no sad songs for me._ ”

Even in Erin’s foggy state, she recognizes the poem. It’s one of her favourites. If she was in a better place, she could recite it verbatim.

Holtz’s voice is low, smooth. “ _Plant thou no roses at my head / Nor shady cypress tree / Be the green grass above me / With showers and dewdrops wet / And if thou wilt, remember / And if thou wilt, forget.”_

Erin is quiet.

Holtz glances at her and continues. “ _I shall not see the shadows / I shall not feel the rain / I shall not hear the nightingale / Sing on, as if in pain / And dreaming through the twilight / That doth not rise nor set / Haply I may remember / And haply may forget_.”

The last line echoes in the silent room.

Holtz closes the anthology. “Thoughts?”

Erin blinks at her. Tears gather in her eyes. When she’s sick, she’s a crier.

“Oookay,” Holtz says. “Never mind. We can discuss ‘When I am dead’ when you are not dead.”

“This was a mistake,” Erin says.

“Nooooo.” Holtz trades the massive poetry anthology for a smaller book. “You also have to read the next chapter of this by Thursday, so let’s get started.”

Erin doesn’t have the heart to tell her that she’s already read all her assigned readings for the rest of the class. She also doesn’t have the heart to tell her that she’s read _Pride and Prejudice_ more times than she can count.

As Holtz reads, her nose scrunches up cutely. She’s cute.

“So are you,” Holtz says without looking up from the book.

Did Erin say that out loud?

“Yes,” Holtz answers. She shuts the book and crawls closer to lay the back of her hand against Erin’s forehead. “Oh yeah. You are cookin’ right now.”

She drops the book onto Erin’s lap and starts clambering out of the bed.

“Good,” Erin mumbles. “Stay away.”

Holtz rolls her eyes. “I’m just getting you some drugs. Don’t get too excited.”

She rummages around in her stuff, eventually brandishing a small box.

Erin catches the logo on the front. “I can’t take ibuprofen.”

Holtz looks down at the medication and then whips it across the room like it’s radioactive. It hits the wall hard enough to dent the cardboard. “Okay, no Advil Cold & Flu. What about Tylenol?”

Erin nods drowsily.

Holtz springs into action, grabbing a coat—Erin’s coat, not her own coat—and her wallet and keys. “I’ll be back in 4.8 minutes. Do _not_ die before I get back.”

And then she’s gone.

Erin falls back asleep.

She wakes up to the door opening.

“Okay, sorry, that was longer than 4.8 minutes. The campus store only had regular Tylenol so I had to sprint to the pharmacy.” She pulls a different box out of the bag in her hand, and pries it open. She pops a couple pills out of the foil packet and scoops Erin’s water bottle up off the floor.

“This really wasn’t necessary,” Erin says, trying to sit up.

Holtz tries to actually press the pills into her mouth, but Erin swats her away and takes them, swallowing them down one by one with gulps of water.

Holtz tosses the box onto her desk. “There. That should get your fever down. Hopefully.”

“You didn’t have to do any of that,” Erin says.

“You’re right. Common practice _is_ to ignore the marvels of modern medicine and let your roommate die of influenza like it’s 1918.”

“You are so dramatic,” Erin complains.

Holtz crawls back into Erin’s bed, this time sitting up by her pillow and stretching her legs out alongside her. She plucks the forgotten book from Erin’s lap. “Alright, where were we? Oh yeah, people pretending they hate each other when really they’re falling in love.”

Erin’s face is hot. Maybe Holtz is right about her having a fever.

Holtz starts reading again. This time, Erin relaxes against her, drifting in and out as Holtz keeps on going past the assigned chapter, clearly getting into the story.

She realizes that at some point she must have shifted so her head is in Holtz’s lap. Holtz holds the book in one hand, the other one absentmindedly running through Erin’s hair. If Erin were more coherent, maybe she’d be embarrassed by how greasy it is, how some of it’s stuck to her forehead with sweat, but she’s not. Holtz doesn’t seem to notice, anyway.

She abruptly breaks off with a yawn several chapters later. “Oh man. I’m beat. I could so just fall asleep right now.”

Erin hums in agreement.

Holtz shuts the book. “Would you mind?”

“It’s fine, we already read everything that was required.”

Holtz reaches down to drop the book to the floor. “Sweet. Napping is another one of those things that’s better with friends.”

Then she wiggles down so she’s more horizontal. Erin lifts her head out of the way in surprise as she clues in belatedly that Holtz was asking permission to nap _in her bed_.

She conks out almost immediately, snoring softly, and Erin hesitates for a fraction of a second before lowering her head again so it’s resting on Holtz’s stomach this time.

She nods off again.

 

When Erin wakes up, the light in the room has shifted, the sun having start to set. Holtz’s fingertips are running up and down Erin’s arm.

“You’re so sweaty that _my_ shirt is damp,” Holtz says cheerfully, having immediately sensed that she’s awake.

“Sorry.” Erin feels all achy, and she’s not sure if it’s from being sick or from sleeping in a weird position.

“I’m not complainin’.” Holtz rolls slightly to her side, her other arm coming around to hug Erin.

“Thanks for going to class for me,” Erin murmurs. “And for reading to me.”

“My absolute pleasure. Even though I gotta say, being an English major for a day was a little mind-numbingly dull.”

Erin tries to shove her, but her arms are weak and Holtz is still holding her.

“I’m _kidding,_ ” Holtz teases. “This is your thing, and you’re much better at it than I am.”

“Thanks?”

Holtz squirms again, getting even closer to her. “So who’s your favourite writer?”

Erin pauses. “Is it cliched to say Jane Austen?”

“Nah, just predictable.”

“Well, it’s true.” Erin yawns for what feels like the billionth time today. “Ever since I was a kid.”

“Never could get too into good ole Jane, not gonna lie. Hope we can still be friends.”

Erin laughs lightly. “You seemed like you were getting pretty into the book earlier.”

“Was it the book I was getting into?” Erin can hear a smile twisting Holtz’s words. “If you say so.”

Erin hides her own smile by pressing her face to Holtz’s side.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My goal with this one is to make Holtz weirder than I've ever made her before. Am I up to the challenge? Only time will tell


End file.
